


inexplicable, crazy, desperate

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: He’s not surprised to find Gene still awake. There have been moments when he’s wondered if the medic ever sleeps at all; it seems like he’s always on the move, rushing back and forth from one injured man to another. Had Babe not personally seen Gene drop off against his shoulder a few times, he would be convinced that he’s nocturnal. Finding Gene still awake isn’t surprising.What is a shock are the tear tracks that glisten in the dim moonlight when Gene lifts his head.(written for the Tumblr prompt:"Wait, why are you crying?")





	inexplicable, crazy, desperate

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

When Babe stumbles to bed that night – straight to bed, just like Major Winters ordered – he’s sure he could collapse and sleep for a week.

The patrol was draining. It took something out of everyone to just force themselves across the river, but watching Jackson’s agonized death was like a deep stab in barely formed scar tissue. Babe feels as if he’s been sucked dry. His head aches, his muscles feel strained, and he’s in that exhausted place where everything seems a little ridiculous, a little unreal.

The rest of the guys he’s bunking with either haven’t come to bed yet or are already asleep when he enters the room. Babe is so ready to give himself up to bed that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of ragged breathing from a few beds away; when he does, it takes his strung out brain a few more seconds to convince himself he isn’t imagining it.

He’s not surprised to find Gene still awake. There have been moments when he’s wondered if the medic ever sleeps at all; it seems like he’s always on the move, rushing back and forth from one injured man to another. Had Babe not personally seen Gene drop off against his shoulder a few times, he would be convinced that he’s nocturnal. Finding Gene still awake isn’t surprising.

What is a shock are the tear tracks that glisten in the dim moonlight when Gene lifts his head.

He turns away in the next second, but it’s too late. Babe has seen.

“Gene?” he whispers, tone coming out more alarmed than it should. When Gene tries to cringe in on himself, Babe doesn’t hesitate before sitting at the edge of his bed and reaching out to him. “Wait – why are you crying?”

It takes a few seconds for Gene’s dark gaze to swivel towards him. When their eyes meet, Babe realizes he knows the answer already. Of course he does; it’s obvious.

“Hey,” he says, and swallows, because those screams are still echoing in his head too. “There was nothing you coulda done. Jackson's head was all blown to hell. He couldn’t have been okay, he didn’t – you couldn’t –”

Babe cuts himself, swallowing hard. It’s useless to force out reassurances. Gene never accepts “you couldn’t have done anything.” In his mind, there’s always something he could have done, and every life lost hits him life a personal tragedy because he feels he could have done better. Even when there’s no hope, no chance. Eugene Roe will always carry the weight of the company (of the world) on his shoulders.

In Bastogne, Babe feared he would shatter to pieces under the pressure. Now, though, they’re out of the woods. The war is creeping to its end, they’re still alive, and…

And people are still dying, and Eugene can’t save them all.

Telling him he couldn’t have done anything will do no good. Instead, Babe just reaches out and takes the other man’s hand in his. Gene’s palms are rough, calloused from hard work and dry from the manic scrubbing ritual he’s gone through every day since they regained access to soap. _(Scrub out the blood, scrub out the death, scrub scrub scrub until his hands are red and raw for a reason other than bloodstains.)_

“You comforted him, Gene,” Babe whispers. “He was glad to have you there.”

Gene inhales a shuddering breath; when he speaks, his voice is small. “He was… begging me to save him. You heard him, Babe. He was calling out for his Mama and for me, and I couldn’t, I _didn’t_ save his life. I didn’t do a thing. All I could do was watch him die.” Gene spits the words past purses lips as if they’re poisonous. “Shrapnel in the brain, for god’s sake.”

“You did all you could. You tried. You helped him.”

“I didn’t do a damn thing,” Gene says again. “Nothing, Babe. He survived Bastogne. Jackson survived, and _he deserved to live._ He didn’t deserve to die in no damn basement in a town half-bombed to hell. He should have lived, Babe.”

“I know,” Babe whispers, because Gene’s words couldn’t be more true. The reality of Jackson’s death is bitter, and a painful reminder that they are still very much in hell. This hell has beds and ceilings over their heads, but death is still around every wrong corner. They aren’t home yet.

Babe doesn’t care what he has to survive. He’s going to get home; and he’s going to make sure Gene does too, if it’s the last thing he does.

This time, when he reaches out for the other man, Gene doesn’t pull away. Instead he melts into the comfort of Babe’s arms, fitting snugly against his chest and allowing Babe’s breathing to set a steady pace for them both. Babe runs his hands over Gene’s back, up and down in a soothing rhythm, until the last of Gene’s soft whimpers have died away.

His tears are half-dried by the time they separate, but Babe wipes them away anyway. Gene’s eyes scrunch beneath the pressure of his fingers, and Babe feels the sudden _(inexplicable, crazy, desperate)_ urge to place a kiss right on the tip of his nose.

Instead, he forces a small smile when Gene looks at him again. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, and prays to god he sounds more reassured than he feels. “We’ve got a little further to go. We just have to keep trying ‘till then.”

Gene won’t stop trying. Gene will _never_ stop trying.

If Babe has to run at his heels, never getting close enough to feel, to touch, to know completely… well, at least he’ll be close enough to stand by Gene when he needs help carrying the weight of the world.


End file.
